


hello sinner i believe it is time to go

by theviolonist



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:12:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only two things to do with women like Joan Watson: either you kiss them, or you kill them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hello sinner i believe it is time to go

_Un;_

Jamie learnt half her tricks in _Arsène Lupin_ and the other half from the criminals Sherlock brought back home and waxed poetic about, stuck in the cracks of his own brilliance. They simmered in the depths of her magician's heart for years, while she crafted her escape plan: blueprints, skeleton keys, passports, every failsafe necessary to be able to stick a pin into her targets and watch them deflate while she runs away, melts into the night dressed in its exact color. 

When she was younger people called her cold, because her smile was a scalpel, measured to the millimeter, and never quite reached the center of her irises. Years later, she composes her riposte: that her hardness is the hardness of diamonds, of things that cut but never break, that withstand the toll of centuries. 

From puppet to puppeteer, oh my. Her mother would be proud. 

 

_Deux;_

There are ten thousand ways to kill men —she would know— ; but how do you kill a woman? Sherlock on his own was a mediocre adversary, but with her he's almost the mastermind he's always fathomed himself.

Jamie sends a car to the brownstone on a snowless winter morning, the ice trapping the city in frosted immobility. When it comes back to her Joan's heels on the tiles make almost no sound.

"What do you want?"

"You."

 

_Trois;_

She's done it all: unmade a man of letters because he'd slandered her favorite book, sunk the ten ships a middle-Eastern diplomat was using for human trafficking, killed a family whose happiness was offending her, amassed more money than she'll ever need, stolen paintings and jewels, buildings, crowns.

But Joan Watson doesn't care about that. No, Joan cares about _goodness_ , about such things as Justice and Love and Kindness, things Jamie has no room in her heart for. 

"Have you ever killed a man, Joan?"

Joan doesn't answer, but she does sit down. She looks trapped, ready to bare her fangs at the slightest provocation; beautiful with her steel-rod spine. She shakes her head. 

"I didn't think so. You're missing out; it's not all that different from painting, you know? Sherlock told me you dabbled."

Joan's eyes are black, unblinking. "He didn't."

Maybe she was wrong, after all—maybe it's not fear. Maybe it's just preparedness, the kind Jamie knows like the outline of her knives: lips parted, muscles coiled, knuckles white, only one instinct left, survival.

 

_Quatre;_

He did say Joan would surprise her.

She should learn to believe some of what he says, even though his promises have always been hollow, pretty and glittering, Impressionist tortoise-shells. She's good at that—learning, taking from failures the fabric of future successes, wringing boldness from shame.

It would be so easy to kill her: kiss the back of her hands and feed her a bite of poisoned apple; stick a blade in the deliciously smooth skin at the nape of her neck; make her take a few steps backs and walk right into the sky, arms spread like a red-splattered angel.

But she doesn't. There's no game unless there's a challenge, something to lose.

 

_Cinq;_

"I've painted a picture of you. Do you want to see it?"

Joan walks in front of her, as though she knew the way. 

"I couldn't capture your likeness." She doesn't say: _I've got a hundred of those, stashed in basements all over the world._

"No."

Jamie smiles her sweetest, most shark-like smile.

"Why don't you come closer?"

The same answer is on the tip of her tongue, ready to be shaped—no. But she walks right into Jamie's arms anyway, which is unexpected. Perhaps—

"You're a monster," Joan says, matter-of-factly.

She could let her think it. Monstrosity has its clear lines and rash, unforgiving colors. 

Jamie tilts her head. "Not really," she says, and she seals the kiss.


End file.
